The Art of War
by Craig Withers
Summary: A Kendo sensei tries to escape Raccoon City in the days before it is wiped out.


The Art of War  
  
I watch from a window two stories up, giving me an ideal view of the street below. I close my eyes for a moment, see the street as it was; part of Raccoon City's shopping district, regularly packed with shoppers of all ages. Elderly couples supporting each other, jostle with young couples blinded by their newfound love to the perils of age, scornful of their elders. Now the only things that jostle for space in these streets are the undead. I remember how exciting Raccoon was then, a young city, growing at a fearsome rate, courtesy of Umbrella. As I say, was.  
  
Things change.  
  
Take me for example, not all that long ago I was little more than a Kendo teacher. I had made Kendo my life, and I had progressed steadily through the levels of discipline until I was ready to teach. Chasing the "American Dream™" I packed up my relatively few belongings and headed west when I heard of Raccoon City, lured by the promise of wealth. My business sense was, I am proud to say, on top form, and in no time at all I had a decent- sized class. Held in a good-sized gym, leased at highly competitive rates from Umbrella Realty.  
  
But a few months ago, late May to be exact, everything changed. There had been a spate of murders in the neighbouring Arklay Mountains, victims savaged in the most gruesome ways. With casualties mounting and public opinion swaying against him, the Chief of Police despatched S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team to investigate. Shortly afterwards all contact with the team was lost and the Alpha team was sent in.  
  
A few days later, the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members returned. They returned to us with stories of horrific genetic experiments conducted by Umbrella, stories about zombies, hideous cross breeds of humans and spiders or humans and reptiles. They also told us about Umbrella and their T-Virus, and of their corruption of Captain Wesker.  
  
The press had a field day with the story, but the S.T.A.R.S members were very highly respected in Raccoon, and people listened to them. But despite the public's belief, and the team's testimonies, there was no proof, and the matter was soon swept under the carpet with the usual public investigation. People were happy to accept the idea that some over-worked and under-paid police officers had went a little crazy out in the woods, and forgot the matter.  
  
Then, towards the tail end of August, when the zombies and their companion creatures started to appear. Things went downhill rapidly, and by the end of the month it was as if the gates to hell had been opened somewhere in the city. Zombies now roam every street and undead dogs hunt and scavenge in packs. The places people flocked to for safety, churches, hospital, schools, have become charnel houses where every new death gives birth to a hideous kind of unlife, or undeath to be more precise.  
  
I haven't spoken to anyone since early September. I eat only dried food, the type sold for survival nuts and hunters, and I drink only bottled water, and even then I boil it first.  
  
It is now the 26th of September, and I fear it may be too late to escape, but I have waited here long enough, paralysed between hope and fear. I know I will be lucky to escape alive, but I have to try. The Army has blockaded the city, but I must try to get out, to spread the truth.  
  
I will need all of my skill to survive; I have only one gun, a Browning HP. This suits me, as I am not comfortable with guns, the sword is my weapon of choice. I check the gun, load it and holster on my right hip and pocket the handful of extra clips I have. I have a pack ready, which contains my remaining supplies so I put it on and adjust it so it is secure. I cross the room and take my katana from its mounting on the wall and unsheathe it, run through a short kata. A sword must be treated with respect and care. With time and practice a Kendo master's sword ceases to be a tool, and becomes part of him, an extension of his arm. In the right hands, a katana can slice a man in two, cutting through bone and muscle with equal ease. I sheath it and fix it in place on my left hip. Last of all is my tanto, a small dagger, which I place inside my jacket, just under my right armpit.  
  
Now I am ready. I move to the door and draw my katana. I take a deep breath and go over my plan one last time. Wishing I could feel more confident, I open the door and step through.  
  
The door swings open easily and I step out into the small reception are by the main door to my dojo. There is a small desk here, where I used to sit and fill out the occasional pieces of paperwork required to keep a business running. I pick up the telephone that sits on the desk, I half expect to hear zombies moaning or the voice of some sinister Umbrella official on the other end, but there is only silence, not even a dial tone. I drop the receiver on the desk and walk over to the main door.  
  
Two wide and tall glass doors, designed to allow plentiful light in, they are now held shut by the planks of wood I nailed across them, The glass is broken in places, spiderwebbed from one side to the other, missing completely in others. One of the planks has come loose, zombie's handiwork no doubt. A shiver runs up my spine when I think of the things that may have been trying to get in while I have been sleeping. I sheath my sword and pick up the hammer I left lying here when I first nailed the doors shut and begin to pry the remaining planks loose. I work quickly, fearful of anything hearing me. With the planks removed, I drop the hammer and draw my sword again. My feet crunch broken glass as I step out into the lobby of this floor. Instinctively I step toward the lifts, only to stop a second later. Standing at the other end of the lobby, not twenty feet away from me, is a zombie. Although I have seen more than I could count from the windows of my dojo, this is the first time I have seen one this close. Swaying slightly, it (for I refuse to recognise it as the woman it once was) is side on to me, and for a moment I think it will miss me if I do not move. Then, with a hideous moan, it turns to face me and lurches into action. My stomach heaves as I see its horror full on. A few scraps of clothing still remain, and I notice, with strange clarity, that its shoes are spotless. My eyes travel up its legs, to its abdomen, where I see that most of its stomach has been torn out.  
  
Entrails still hang from the cavity where they once sat, moving slightly with each shambling step. I am now rooted to the spot, my sword dangling uselessly from my limp hand. Unable to tear my eyes away, I am helpless to anything but take in more gruesome details of this horror; ragged strips of skin are missing from the upper torso; chunks of flesh torn from the arms; the thing's right cheek is missing also; then I look into it's eyes. For an instant I am a child again, visiting my grandmother. Old when I was born, she was ancient by the time I was able to remember her properly. The thing I remember clearest are her eyes, milky white with cataracts, they terrified me. This zombie has the same eyes, a solid milky white, they have no pupils or iris. It is this memory that snaps me out of my trance.  
  
Unwilling to get any closer than necessary, I draw my gun and fire twice. Although I do not like guns, I know how to use them, and my aim is true. The first shots hits just below the throat, knocking the creature back a few feet; the second hits it in the left shoulder, the force of the bullet taking the arm off. The zombie barely flinches, merely raises it's other arm and shambles forward again. A change of tactics is required I think. I fire twice again, both times in the chest and as the zombie stumbles back I move in close, and slash horizontally with the katana. The blade passes through it's skull as if it was papier maché, slicing it neatly in two. The animated corpse, now robbed of the brain's motor functions, drops like a rock.  
  
I stand over it, watch for a few seconds as it starts to twitch, then stumble over to the wall and throw up.  
  
I lean my head against the cool surface of the wall, try to think. Terror runs cold fingers along my spine and my sanity pleads with me to go back inside the dojo, board up the doors and hope for a rescue. I take a deep breath, and push myself away from the wall. I have to get a grip on myself, this is the only logical thing to do. I close my eyes and take another breath. I can do this, I must do this, there is no other choice. I holster my gun, I must not be so extravagant with my ammunition in future. I walk over to the door to the stairs, kick it open and jump back, listening for any noise, but it is quiet. My sword held in a ready position with both hands, I step into the empty stairwell and take the stairs leading upwards. I climb the stairs as quickly as I dare, I do not want to crash headlong into a zombie. I stop at each floor and look through the glass panel set in each door. There are zombies behind each one. Fear pumps adrenaline through my veins, and I hear every footstep I make with crystal clarity, and when I reach the door to the roof, five floors later, my hands shake as I open the padlock. I have the key due to the fact that I sometimes held classes on the roof in the summer.  
  
The door is well oiled and swings open easily as I step out. I walk to the edge o the roof in a daze, shocked by what I see. Fires rage uncontrolled across the city. The horizon is broken intermittently by red-orange flames and in every direction I look, tongues of fire lick hungrily at the sky. As I look around, I see various landmarks; the police station, boarded up in a valiant last stand, ultimately pointless from what I heard over my radio; the hospital, it's sterile white architecture seems a sick joke when I look at the corpses littering the streets, corpses mauled beyond the ability to re-animate themselves; the clock tower in the distance, pointing at the heavens like an accusing finger pointed at the gods, barely recognisable through the smoke and the heat shimmer. The smoke makes me sneeze, and this simple action brings home another point, and my blood chills at the realisation. There is no noise coming from the city. No barking of dogs, no hum of conversation, no sound of people going to or coming from work in cars, even the gentle susurrus of trains in the distance is missing.  
  
The silence is broken again by a loud squawk from behind me, and I spin around, my sword coming up automatically in response to the black shape coming at me. I have no time to process the shock as my blade slices through flesh, as another black shape (which I realise now is a crow) comes at me, then another, and another. I cease counting as instinct and training take over, and my sword weaves a web of steel around me as I circle, duck and roll my way around the roof. Time ceases to exist and all that I sense is the sword in my hands, the roof beneath my feet and the crows attacking me from all sides. They are fast, but I am faster and eventually I despatch the last of them.  
  
I sheath my sword and look around, finding myself almost in the centre of the roof, having come in a long loop from where I was looking over the side. I can feel my legs start to shake as the adrenaline in my system dissipates, so I decide to get moving. I survey the skyline once more to get my bearings. Through the smoke, I see my destination, the freeway out of Raccoon. Fixing the direction in my mind, I cross to the roof door, which still stands open, closing it behind me, I descend the stairs, quicker and more confident now that I know where I am going.  
  
I reach the ground floor without mishap, and walk into the main lobby of the building, with it's walls painted sterile white and a chessboard, carpet-tile floor, it is identical to the lobby of almost every other lobby in the area. Like so much of Raccoon, this building was built by Umbrella from prefab sections, which meant that sometimes it seemed that every second building was identical, leaving you feeling lost and disoriented. The apartment blocks were worse, giant cubes of concrete with over a hundred apartments, each the same size and all the same utilitarian grey. I remember one Monday morning I saw one being assembled and I laughed at the prefab sections being unloaded from a truck, they looked for all the world like the pieces of a giant child's Lego set. By Wednesday night it had been assembled, and by Friday afternoon the first families were moving in.  
  
A distant howl brings me back to the present, and my head snaps round to where the main doors should be, only to find they have been torn from their hinges and now lie shattered on the floor, giving a clear view o the street outside. I don't like what I see. A slight wind blows through the entrance, carrying the smell of burning wood, I guess this means the fires have spread to the forest. Beneath the tang of wood smoke though, is a more disturbing aroma, the smell of decay, as if the city itself is rotting away. I cough as the smoke catches in my throat, and suddenly there is a soft thump and a sibilant hiss from behind me.  
  
I spin round, my sword coming up in a smooth motion. Squatting on to of the reception desk is a creature from a nightmare. Obviously some kind of reptile, it looks as if it would be at home in a H. P. Lovecraft story. Its beady, rat-like eyes stare at me from a skull that sits almost below the level of its shoulders. Crouched on the desk as it is, I can't really tell how tall it is, but it is almost twice as wide as I am, and I don't need a PhD to tell me that extra mass is muscle. Its arms reach almost to the floor, hands ending in heavy, curved claws that are slick with blood. It must have been feeding behind the desk and I attracted its attention when I coughed. It dawns on me now that this is one of the creatures the S.T.A.R.S. members called a Hunter. Suddenly it lets out an inhuman scream and leaps at me, throwing its arms out wide. The desk is about thirty feet away, but it covers the distance in a heartbeat. Instinct takes over, and I duck, feeling the air ripple as its claws pass through the space my neck occupied an instant earlier. The hunter lands heavily behind me, but by the time I have spun round to face it, it is already charging at me. It slashes at me with one arm and I block its claws with my sword, straight blade to talons, my arm jarring with the impact. The thing slashes with it's other arm, slower this time and I realise that a creature carrying as much mass as this one is bound to be slow. I block it's claws again, but this time continue the stroke along the creature's arm, this has the double effect of lessening the force on the blade and my arm and also opens a long gash from the thing's wrist to it's elbow. The flesh parts with as much resistance as paper and my blade sinks deep, blood gushing out instantly; I must have hit an artery. The thing screams again, this time in evident pain and clutches its wrist with it's other clawed hand. I seize my chance, flourish my katana above my head and bring it down on the creature's undamaged arm, severing it at the wrist. The thing screams a third time, throwing its head back, and as it does I slash out at its unprotected throat. The scream becomes a gurgle as the creature stumbles backwards and collapses, it's lifeblood gushing onto the carpeted floor.  
  
I wipe my blade clean and sheath it, and step through the doorway into the street, taking a deep breath as I go. I try to ignore the smell and the fine grit that collects on my teeth from the ash in the air. I glance nervously up and down the street, but it is empty, devoid even of zombies. My eyes flick skywards, scanning for crows. The buildings that line the street are empty and silent, sanding grey and blank like tombstones. The shattered windowpanes and occasional fires are a grim epitaph to the unfortunate inhabitants. I head up the street at a jog, fast enough that I set a good pace, but not so fast that I will tire myself out. The commercial district of Raccoon lies just east of the city centre, putting it quite close to the freeway, which enters the east of the city. Although I am fit, I have no intention of leaving the city on foot, and I intend to obtain an alternative means of transport. As I jog, I check he cars abandoned on the street, most still in their parking spaces, some lying in the middle of the road, their doors open or windows smashed. There are no signs of any of the owners and none of the cars I see have the keys in them. I curse myself for leaving my motorbike in storage back East instead of bringing it with me to Raccoon. I continue up the street, pausing only long enough at each car to check for keys, I do not realise I have walked past an alleyway until the sound of garbage cans being knocked over attracts my attention. I turn to my right, just in time to see the source of the noise. Stepping from the shadow of the buildings is one of the dogs I have seen roaming the streets from my window. The main reason I wanted to obtain transport as soon as possible, I have watched packs of these dogs run down and devour people in seconds. The dog moves out of the shadows one step at a time, allowing me ample opportunity to examine it. Patches of skin are missing from all over its body, pink flesh, muscle and bone showing through. It has no eyelids, and I am unable to tell if it's eyes are focusing on me; they are the same milky white as the zombie I killed earlier. It stops walking, as if just now noticing me, bares it's teeth and growls, translucent drool splashing to the pavement in thick stringy drops. Suddenly it throws its head back and howls at the sky, the sound piercing the night sky like a clarion call. Seconds later I am horrified to hear answering calls, most of them far too close for comfort. I start to draw my sword slowly, trying not to provoke it, but as soon as I start to move it bounds forward and launches itself at me. In one swift motion, I draw my sword and spin to the right, out of line of the dog's attack. As I spin I raise my sword over my head, and when my spin brings me side on to the dog, I slash down, the blade passing through it's spine and right through it's body. The upper half of the dog lands on the bonnet of the car behind me, the lower half slump to the pavement. I start to walk round the car to check the dog is actually dead, when I hear a loud snarl behind me, and before I can turn, something heavy crashes into me from behind, sending me sprawling on the ground, and my sword flying from my hand. As I crash to the pavement I realise there must have been another dog in the shadows, waiting for a chance to pounce. I land on my back, and barely get my arms up in time to stop the dog as it lunges for my head. Its maw is inches from my head, and it's fetid breath washes over me, hot and rank, a smell like an open grave on a hot summer day. My head spins as I struggle to breathe and I realise I only have seconds to live before my throat is ripped out. With my left hand I reach inside my jacket, fumbling for the tanto I sheathed just under my left armpit. After what seems like an eternity, my hand closes on the grip of the knife, and I pull it out and plunge it into the dog's skull, just behind it's right eyeball. The blade sinks deep, and I twist it as it enters the dog's cranial cavity. With a final, rank exhalation, the dog goes limp and collapses on to of me. I kick it off of me and roll away, careful to pull my knife free as I go. I stagger to my feet, drawing deep, gasping gulps of air, realising that I must move quickly now before more dogs appear, drawn by the first dog's howling.  
  
Even as I think this, I hear howls from the far end of the street. Fear grips me as I look up towards the source of the sound and see a pack of four dogs bounding towards me. I consider standing my ground, then in quick succession, five more appear from a side street and join the pack. I feel cold sweat collect at the base of my spine and my stomach knots when I imagine what those dogs will do to me if they catch me. I place my tanto back in its sheath, pick up my sword and start running. My heart quails as the dogs begin to howl; the fact that their prey is running must appeal to their natural instincts. With adrenaline fuelled speed, I run for my life, my feet pounding the asphalt as I weave between wrecked cars. I risk a glance over my shoulder, what I see there almost makes me stumble; the lead dog is less than fifty metres away already. I draw my gun and fire twice, aiming as best as I can. Miraculously, one of the bullets hits and the dog collapses with a pained yelp, one of its forelegs shattered. This buys me no more than a few seconds, as the other dogs are only metres behind the first, and barely slow down as they leap over their fallen leader. I holster my pistol and sheath my sword and try to squeeze some extra speed form my legs as I turn into the next street, scanning the buildings on either side for a door still intact. I spot one, there on the left, the door standing open slightly, the windows on either side covered by steel security shutters. I swerve towards it, my breath coming in ragged gasps now, my pulse thumping loudly in my ears, although not loud enough to drown out the sounds of the dog's claws on the pavement behind me. I feel as if my lungs are on fire as I close the distance to the door, praying that my plan will work. I count off the distance remaining; twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet, and I am there, I burst through the doorway, grabbing hold of the open door to stop myself. I am going so fast that I nearly wrench my arm from its socket, I ignore the pain though and throw my weight against the door, slamming it shut. I barely have it closed though, when one of the dogs crashes into it, pushing it open a few inches. I push harder against the door, and it starts to close again, but another dog throws it's weight against it, and it starts to edge it's way open again. Panic grips me as I draw my gun and point it through the open door and empty the clip, firing blindly. The weight against the door is removed though, and it slams shut. Before the dogs have a chance to regroup, I slide home the large bolts I hoped would be there, locking the door securely in place, thanking Umbrella for their prefab buildings. There is a heavy desk sitting against one wall, I drop my gun and drag the desk in front of the door. Confident now that I am safe from the dogs, I collapse on the floor and try to catch my breath. So exhausted am I, I don't even flinch when the dogs start to attack the security shutters, I merely check to make sure they are holding, and take my pack off. Reaching inside, I pull out a litre bottle of water. Although I only have two other bottles in my pack, I drain half the bottle in a few gulps, and empty the rest of it over my head in an attempt to cool off. Eventually, my pulse reaches a normal level, and my breathing eases off, although I am left with the feeling that my windpipe has been sandpapered.  
  
I pull myself to my feet, placing my empty bottle in my pack and putting it back on. I pick up my empty gun, eject the empty magazine, insert a new one and holster the gun. I notice that the dogs have ceased their assault on the shutters, I have no doubt though, that they are still out there waiting for me. Calmer now that I am in now immediate danger, I check my surroundings. I am in a small office, on the wall facing me is a door that must lead further into the building and to the upper floors, I noticed four more as I was running in here. Above the space where I pulled the desk from is a poster bearing the words "Carousel Kids Nursery and Crèche" on the bottom right I see the words, "Sponsored by Umbrella Inc." There are many nurseries like this in the area. Raccoon was a young city, most of its inhabitants were families or young couples, so Umbrella was careful to provide top class child care facilities as an incentive to move here.  
  
I have no choice but to go through the door, I am under no illusions as to how long I would last out on the streets, the best option it seems, is to keep to the rooftops until I get closer to the freeway then appropriate some transport. I have no idea what kind of welcome I will get from the forces blockading the city, but I will take the chance, rather than stay in the charnel house Raccoon has become and slowly starve to death. I put aside these morbid thoughts and concentrate on at hand, getting to the roof of this building. I open the door in front of me, and find a short corridor, the walls decorated in bright yellows and soothing blues, matching the reception area behind me. Along one wall a mural of a rainbow with various cartoon animals stretches to the end of the corridor, where a door stands open, revealing a set of stairs leading upwards. There are two other doors, one in each wall, the right hand one slightly closer than the left. I draw my sword as I walk to the door and open it. Empty, I realise with relief, only now aware that I was holding my breath. I let it out with an explosive sigh as I scan the room. A broken window opposite me opens out into an alley, letting a slight breeze into the room, which appears to have served as an office and a staff room. To my right sit three desks in a row, the chairs knocked over, papers strewn over the floor. On my left is a coffee table, covered in well-thumbed magazines, over flowing ashtrays and overturned mugs. The table is surrounded on three sides by small couches, which look temptingly comfortable after the uncomfortable floor of my dojo. I resist the temptation and leave the room, closing the door as I go. I move further down the corridor towards the other door, which is set halfway along the wall. As I reach for the handle, I hear noise from the other side of the door, and I grip my hand tighter in my hand as I swing the door open.  
  
The sight that meets my eyes is so unbelievable, so horrifying in its nature that my brain freezes, unwilling and unable to process what it is seeing. The room I have just entered is the actual nursery and crèche of this building, and runs the length of the corridor outside. Against the far wall to my left are a series of cribs, and I feel my sanity waver as I realise there are still…things moving under the blankets in them. That is not he worst though. Slightly to my right, and against the wall facing me lies the body of the nursery nurse. Hunched over her, gnawing on her corpse are a group of small children. I make a choking noise as I struggle to accept this, and at this, they turn to face me. As they do the sight that meets my eyes, I realise, I will never forget, will be burned indelibly into my mind and scorched into my memory. Revulsion and horror rush over me so strongly that I am pushed to the edge of madness by it. The children lurch to their feet, and I whimper as I realise that one of them can only crawl, not having had the chance to learn how to walk before this hideous fate was thrust up on it. I will never find words to describe the horror of the sounds they make as they shamble towards me, but it is these noises that pull me from my trance. A calm serenity settles over me, and I know instinctively what I have to do. I draw my gun and open fire, my serenity giving way to all-encompassing rage as the first of my bullets hit pulpy, decomposing flesh. I keep firing until I run out of bullets, my rage spilling forth as a wordless roar. With my magazine spent, I drop my gun and go to work with my sword. With no finessed or technique I hack, slash and chop until my blade runs red and the carpet around me is sodden with gore and the souls of the poor innocents have hopefully been set free. Like an automaton, I pick up my gun and reload it, cross the room to the cribs and empty enough bullets into each one to ensure that the things beneath the blankets will never move again.  
  
I leave the room and close the door behind me, knowing that I will never forget what I have just seen and done, that I will wake from nightmares of it for the rest of my life. I manage to walk two steps towards the stairs before I collapse to my knees and weep. Great heaving sobs wrack my body as I collapse into the foetal position and I wail from the bottom of my soul. I cry for the children I just killed, for the city of Raccoon and for myself. I lose track of time as I the tears run down my face and I give utterance to the despair in my heart. Eventually my sorrow subsides and is replaced with pure hatred, a cold ball of rage in the pit of my stomach, rage directed towards Umbrella. I swear I will make them pay for their crimes. For the children, I tell myself, for the children.  
  
With newfound purpose, I get to my feet and head for the stairs. I pause at the bottom and check for any zombies above me. To my surprise the stairway seems to be purely for access to the roof, it is barely wide enough for two people and has no other doors apart from this one and the one to the roof. The building must be divided into smaller sections; there must be other doors I missed on the way in. I sprint up the stairs, eager to put distance between this place and myself. The door to the roof is not locked, and opens easily. As I step out, I see two other doors in line with this one, confirming my theory. I jog to the edge of the roof closest to the next building in the street, calculate the space between them at about seven or eight feet. I back up to give myself some running distance, sprint towards the edge and leap easily over the gap. I cross the next rooftop, only to find the building adjacent to it has a higher roof. The fire escape is about level with this roof though, so I throw my pack across before jumping the short distance. The fire escape is slightly lower, a fact I do not take into account before I jump, so eager am I to move on. It is almost the death of me, as I almost crash headlong into the level above the one I am aiming for. My hands scrabble frantically until they find purchase and I swing my legs into the level below and drop down. I pause for a moment to catch my breath, but I don not allow myself the luxury of rest, and pick up my pack again and move up the fire escape to the roof. When I reach the far edge of the roof, I am pleased and dismayed in equal measure. The freeway out of Raccoon is only three blocks away, but those three blocks are comprised of one and two storey apartment blocks, motels, bars and convenience stores. Offering no real opportunities for cover, the remaining distance might as well be a minefield considering how good my chances are of getting across it on foot. I hang my head in despair, and in doing that, find the answer to my problem. Parked on the sidewalk below me is a black Harley Davidson, and lying next to it, the body of a large biker, dressed all in black leathers, presumably the owner. I lift my head skyward and thank God.  
  
I run back to the fire escape and descend it so fast I nearly fall twice. Realising now that my safety lies more in speed than in stealth, I pause at the alleyway exit just long enough to check that the coast is clear. Hurrying round the corner, I pray that my luck holds out just a little longer as I reach the bike and check for keys. Of course, they are not in the ignition, so I will have to search the biker. I grit my teeth, asking if there isn't already enough blood on my hands. Justifying the plundering of this man's corpse by telling myself I did not kill him, I manage to find the keys in his pocket. I pick up his helmet form where it lies on the ground and slip it on. As I go to mount the bike, I realise the man's eyes are open. As a mark of respect and gratitude I reach down and close them. I turn and mount the bike, slipping the keys in the ignition, starting the bike first time. Over the sound of the engine, I can already hear the baying of dogs, so I pull the kickstand up and drive off just as the pack of dogs comes round the corner. I open up the throttle and leave them standing. I turn right at the next intersection, onto the road that leads to the freeway, as I do, I realise I am shaking all over with excitement. I resist the urge to shout out loud, I have made it, I have escaped this hell on Earth, and I am now free to take my revenge on Umbrella. This thought sobers me, and my emotions settle as I decelerate and turn onto the freeway. Just as I feel the road surface change beneath the bike, I see the shadows to my right move, and realise my luck has finally run out as a Hunter bursts from the trees along the road and crashes into the bike, knocking me flying, bouncing and scraping along the road. I come to a violent stop as I hit the barricade in the middle of the road and I feel my legs snap as they absorb most of the impact. My vision blurs and my ears ring as pain unlike anything I have ever experienced sweeps over me, pushing me to the edge of consciousness. I refuse to pass out though, and keep myself awake through sheer orce of will. I slide the visor of the helmet up, and manage to focus on the bike lying across the tarmac on the other side of the road. The Hunter is trapped underneath it, struggling to free itself, tearing the bike to pieces. The sharp tang of gasoline catches my nostrils and I realise the fuel tank has burst. I reach for my gun, but my arm responds too slowly, moving as if underwater. By the time I get my hand on the butt of my gun, the Hunter has pulled the last of the bike from around its feet. It pulls itself up and throws the last few pieces of metal from its claws to the ground. As they land, they spark against the tarmac and the bike explodes in a fireball so bright, I can see it even though I close my eyes. I don't hear the Hunter scream, as the ringing in my ears is getting worse, but I feel the heat of the flames wash over, and catch the smell of roasting meat and grin fiercely.  
  
I grit my teeth, knowing that I will die here unless I drag myself to the blockade. It is just as I steel myself for the pain that a helicopter arrives. From nowhere, a brilliant white light suddenly illuminates the burning wreck of the bike. I lift my head painfully skyward, spot the running lights, the rotor blades spinning so fast they blur. Somehow I find the strength to raise my hand and wave weakly, the spotlight instantly shifts from the bike to me, the light hitting me like a physical force. I feel rather than hear the helicopter come lower, the bass thud of the rotor blades coming nearer and nearer, and I allow myself to slip into blessed unconsciousness, even my fears of what will happen to me now are not enough to keep me awake. All that matters to me is that I have escaped Raccoon City.  
  
I wake suddenly to find myself in a hospital bed. My legs are encased in plaster and my hands are handcuffed to the guardrails on either side of the bed. Facing me is a door with a small glass pane in it, through which I can see people moving back and forth in an evident rush. Lying on the bed next to me is a buzzer, the type used to call for a nurse. I pick it up and press it experimentally, above the door a panel lights up that says, "Nurse Called" Within seconds, one enters, she stays only long enough to see that I am awake before she leaves without a word. I press the buzzer again but nothing happens, and I can do nothing but wait in silence for a minute until two men appear in the doorway. One, a tall thin white man with a shaven head, the other a large black man in a US Army uniform, the left breast covered in medals and decorations, his name tag reads "Carver". The one in the suit closes the door as Carver steps forward, "How you feeling son?" he asks. I reply that I am feeling curious as to why I am handcuffed, rattling the cuffs against the bed for emphasis. "A security precaution on our part", the suit says, as he steps forward and unlocks them with keys from his pocket. "We had to be sure you were not infected you see" Before he has a chance to continue I ask him where I am, how long I have been here and what is being done about Raccoon City. The suit and Carver glance at each other, nod imperceptibly, then Carver speaks again. "I'll be quick son, in case you hadn't noticed, things are a little hectic around here" he says, gesturing towards the door. "My name is General Carver, this is my associate Mr Smith, and we're here to make you an offer" He pauses, as if expecting a response, when I give him none, he continues. "You've been here for a week unconscious, you've been raving on and off, so there's no need to fill us in on your story, we know what happened to you." Smith cuts him off here, "I'm afraid though, that we can't tell you where you are being held, that is classified information" Carver gives him a look that could curdle milk which Smith meets with a blank stare, and I realise they hate each other. "I'm afraid I have to tell you that there isn't any Raccoon City any more son," Carver says, still looking at Smith. "We dropped a low grade tactical nuke on it a few days ago son, it's been wiped out." I am stunned at this, that the US government could wipe out a city wholesale, even one as damned as Raccoon. As this bombshell sinks in, Smith picks up the conversation. "That is not the end of the situation in Raccoon though, the creatures that Umbrella created are essentially immortal, and we need to send in kill teams to clear up the area, to prevent any extra situations that could result from this one" Carver continues for him. "Not only in Raccoon though son, we've got reports of this kind of thing across the world, so what do you say?"  
  
My eyes drift from Carvers face as I think it over. What choice do I really have? This I way I can prevent more innocent deaths, and possibly even strike at Umbrella themselves one day, how could I accomplish that on my own? I look in Smith's cold, empty eyes, and it dawns on me there is the unspoken threat that if I do not join them, I will never see the light of day again. The decision is an easy one. I look at Carver and tell him I'll do it. He grins at me, revealing brilliant white teeth, and takes my hand in his, shaking it vigorously. I look at Smith to see him smiling, revealing no teeth though; on him, the smile looks more like a scalpel cut in his face. I look back at Carver as he says, "Welcome to the team son, you're doing the right thing for your country." I pull my hand away from him and say, "No, for the children, General, for the children"  
  
The End 


End file.
